I'm sorry for not having finished my story about Huaraz - I seem to have written lots about a very small part of the trip and nothing about guinea pigs, llamas or glaciers so far. I am now back in Sweden, and naturally the utter translation drought that haunted me for the last month has vanished - I am up to my eyeballs in dental implants, great!
Half the time here you expect small animals to float by, since mostly it's raining cats and dogs. Still, I'm enjoying the wet smell of forest, the lush green surroundings and, of course, a properly insulated house and a lack of fungi in the wardrobe. And rain means more mushrooms in the forest for me to pick, but more about that another time.
My suitcase is gone!! I'm confident it was lost at Heathrow, and when I saw this article on BBC, I could'nt help but wonder if I was unintentionally causing major disturbances to holiday makers: Heathrow hit by luggage backlog
But it does, after all, say a package; not a yellow hard-shelled suitcase found to contain exotic fruits and yellow chili sauce, so I'm still hoping. It's looking more and more as if I will have to go back to CPH myself to talk to the people, as there is no way getting through to the baggage handlers, and I'm starting to get fed up with the friendly automatic messages in a mix of Danish and Irish on the telephone.
This evening I briefly escaped from work to watch a Swedish journalist investigating the arms trade, more specifically corruption in relation to the sale/lease of Gripen, the fighter planes made by SAAB and BAE to the Czech Republic. Depressing, but not surprising. Apparently the Austrian agent hired as a "consultant" with the task to bribe Czech politicians into voting for the proposal to buy was to earn over half a billion British £...David Leigh, who writes about the same subject for the Guardian (read the most recent article) said that this matter should cause public outrage in Sweden. I think I have to say that sadly it is not the case; most people are used to the dodgy dealings that accompany one of our largest export goods...like shipping lots of pop stars to Africa to promote Sweden and hopefully sell a dozen or so of planes...
The program followed up with another issue, namely Sweden's basic law and how it states that Sweden should not sell weapons to countries that risk entering or causing a conflict. As usual Sweden is one up on the EU, where the only guidelines consist of a code of conduct for arms trade, nothing as solid as a bound, blue book with lots of paragraphs.
How nice it would be if our legislation were to be heeded, and our "freedom of alliance" respected (Sweden is about as neutral as the Swiss navy is vast). In reality, we have exported at least 6.5 billions worth of weapons, munition and explosives to the countries involved in Iraq, an invasion which both the late Foreign Minister and the former Head of the government classed as "contrary to humanitarian law". The politicians did not wish to comment, so the reporters spoke to the export council who said that Sweden is involved in the arms trading system to such an extent that we cannot get out. Smiling arms traders from the industry (UK and US) happily confirmed that Sweden is a great friend because we never say no (we just name the price, I suppose). Hmmm, that is why the Germans liked us too.
The program faded out with images from Kuwait as the first bombs dropped across the border, four years ago. I felt as sick as the first time I saw those images.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Low humidity
Once the bus had found it way through the narrow streets of the city and finally come to a halt at the back of the Z bus station, we stepped out in the crisp mountain air at half past five in the morning. Even while still coming down the steps, we were greeted by enthusiastic calls about "information" with a sort of Peruvian-English twang. I collected our backpack which had landed behind and mostly under the big bags and boxes of unidentified goods thanks to the "smooth" turns of the trip. Before Michael had returned from the gents', I was approached by a friendly young man in the otherwise deserted waiting hall. He wanted to escort us to a cheap hostal, and we decided to give it a go. A short walk took us to the hostal located inside a green glass door and up some steep stairs, where a big lady showed us two different rooms, both with three beds. The first one had a fantastic view of...a 1 by 1 m venting shaft or something similar, and a dubious shower. The second one had a view of lots of electrical cables, but also the surrounding snow-clad mountin tops and the street outside. We opted for the latter. Then our escort did his worst at selling guided daytrips, and we bought the lot: the lagoon, the chavin ruins and the glacier.
After that, we ventured outside to find...breakfast! Just around the corner, a sandwich shop looked quite inviting, and there we sat down to enjoy fresh juice and sandwiches - nothing like a chorizo (the Peruvian style) sandwich and pineapple juice with honey to get you going again! The middle-aged shopkeeper and her daughter bustled in the miniscule kitchen behind the counter. Outside, the sun slowly rising and entering the vally, the little old ladies of Huaraz, or maybe rather from the villages, spread their colourful fabrics and knit-wear on the pavement. The weather felt such a nice change from our usual coastal, humid and cold desert. In Huaraz it was a dry cold but with promises of hot sunshine later in the day. Then there was the thing with the altitude. I had started noticing it on the bus. According to the advice of Michael's French colleagues, I had taken an aspirin and drunk a certain US soft drink containing caffeine. I didn't feel sick, and fortunately that didn't change for the whole stay. But every so often I felt like I had forgotten to breathe and found myself gasping for air. It was only uncomfortable the first night, when I was really tired and got it into my head that maybe I would stop breathing in my sleep and not wake up. It kept me awake for some time, and a slight cold didn't make it better. Still, there is nothing to put you to sleep like pure exhaustion and lots of fresh air!
Anyway, after breakfast we had a well-deserved hot shower each and contemplated going to sleep. But the guided trip we had signed up for was to start 90 minutes later, so I said no. Instead we packed mosquito repellant, camera, aspirin, toilet paper, sun screen, water and sweaters and waited for pick-up.
The tour bus was small but, to me at least, ultramodern. We picked up some other visitors around the city, and every time the bus stopped, locals tried to sell water and snacks to us, especially the coca sweets that were supposed to make you feel better about the altitude (or rather, the swift changes in altitude as you go up one hill and suddenly realise that you are 1000 m higher than where you had breakfast).
As we left the city behind us and headed out on the sometimes tarmac, sometimes gravel road, Michael fought to keep our eyelids from having their way. The landscape was lush with eucalyptus trees (courtesy of the Spanish), different types of giant grass, corn fields and orchards. Along the way I kept getting excited about seeing a pig or a donkey tied to a pole, eating away at the undergrowth next to the road.
After that, we ventured outside to find...breakfast! Just around the corner, a sandwich shop looked quite inviting, and there we sat down to enjoy fresh juice and sandwiches - nothing like a chorizo (the Peruvian style) sandwich and pineapple juice with honey to get you going again! The middle-aged shopkeeper and her daughter bustled in the miniscule kitchen behind the counter. Outside, the sun slowly rising and entering the vally, the little old ladies of Huaraz, or maybe rather from the villages, spread their colourful fabrics and knit-wear on the pavement. The weather felt such a nice change from our usual coastal, humid and cold desert. In Huaraz it was a dry cold but with promises of hot sunshine later in the day. Then there was the thing with the altitude. I had started noticing it on the bus. According to the advice of Michael's French colleagues, I had taken an aspirin and drunk a certain US soft drink containing caffeine. I didn't feel sick, and fortunately that didn't change for the whole stay. But every so often I felt like I had forgotten to breathe and found myself gasping for air. It was only uncomfortable the first night, when I was really tired and got it into my head that maybe I would stop breathing in my sleep and not wake up. It kept me awake for some time, and a slight cold didn't make it better. Still, there is nothing to put you to sleep like pure exhaustion and lots of fresh air!
Anyway, after breakfast we had a well-deserved hot shower each and contemplated going to sleep. But the guided trip we had signed up for was to start 90 minutes later, so I said no. Instead we packed mosquito repellant, camera, aspirin, toilet paper, sun screen, water and sweaters and waited for pick-up.
The tour bus was small but, to me at least, ultramodern. We picked up some other visitors around the city, and every time the bus stopped, locals tried to sell water and snacks to us, especially the coca sweets that were supposed to make you feel better about the altitude (or rather, the swift changes in altitude as you go up one hill and suddenly realise that you are 1000 m higher than where you had breakfast).
As we left the city behind us and headed out on the sometimes tarmac, sometimes gravel road, Michael fought to keep our eyelids from having their way. The landscape was lush with eucalyptus trees (courtesy of the Spanish), different types of giant grass, corn fields and orchards. Along the way I kept getting excited about seeing a pig or a donkey tied to a pole, eating away at the undergrowth next to the road.
Monday, July 02, 2007
High altitude
A long weekend and the world lay at our feet: travel out on Wednesday night, return sometime on Sunday. Means of transport: bus, the most cost-efficient, even if you don’t pick the downright dirt cheap options. Unfortunately at the same time the most accident-prone way of travelling, at least in Peru, but we accepted the gamble.
We had planned to go to Tarma in the highlands, where Michael’s cousin’s mother-in-law has a restaurant, and the cousin and husband dispose of a bedroom for staying over. Everything was organised, the necessary phone calls had been made, etc. Come Wednesday afternoon, however, we realised that there might be some literal obstacles to our journeys; the miners on strike had blocked the carretera (road), and as a result it was unlikely that anyone would get through. Having been unable to confirm with our bus company, Michael suggested we go to Huaraz instead, and so in the early evening we rushed off to another bus station to acquire the tickets from Z Bus, home again to pack and avoid a large-scale cockroach invasion in our absence, i.e. dispose of all food not contained in the fridge in one way or another, with 20 minutes to spare.
A quick stop at the pharmacy downstairs to buy aspirin for the altitude, a taxi ride to our original journey provider to be reimbursed, and then another taxi to the station of departure meaning that in the end we were half an hour early.
The station at 9 pm was teeming with travellers taking advantage of the long weekend. Most of the trips last at least 8 hours, some between 14 and 18, so usually you leave in the evening to arrive early the next day. The actual waiting area was crammed with people all watching the only TV screen available intently – one of the football games in the American Cup was shown. In the other hall where the ticket desks of three or four different companies were located, people with less spherical passion loitered, bought snacks from the kiosk, made a last-minute visit to the sanitary facilities and tried to make sense of the departure calls over the loudspeakers. On the floor next to one desk sat three women with an unmistakable pastoral air about them: long hair in braids, plain cardigans and god only knows how many skirts, making them look like Mumin trolls from the waist down. Seated on their plastic bags filled to the brim, they calmly performed what seemed the trips accounts using a calculator.
We had planned to go to Tarma in the highlands, where Michael’s cousin’s mother-in-law has a restaurant, and the cousin and husband dispose of a bedroom for staying over. Everything was organised, the necessary phone calls had been made, etc. Come Wednesday afternoon, however, we realised that there might be some literal obstacles to our journeys; the miners on strike had blocked the carretera (road), and as a result it was unlikely that anyone would get through. Having been unable to confirm with our bus company, Michael suggested we go to Huaraz instead, and so in the early evening we rushed off to another bus station to acquire the tickets from Z Bus, home again to pack and avoid a large-scale cockroach invasion in our absence, i.e. dispose of all food not contained in the fridge in one way or another, with 20 minutes to spare.
A quick stop at the pharmacy downstairs to buy aspirin for the altitude, a taxi ride to our original journey provider to be reimbursed, and then another taxi to the station of departure meaning that in the end we were half an hour early.
The station at 9 pm was teeming with travellers taking advantage of the long weekend. Most of the trips last at least 8 hours, some between 14 and 18, so usually you leave in the evening to arrive early the next day. The actual waiting area was crammed with people all watching the only TV screen available intently – one of the football games in the American Cup was shown. In the other hall where the ticket desks of three or four different companies were located, people with less spherical passion loitered, bought snacks from the kiosk, made a last-minute visit to the sanitary facilities and tried to make sense of the departure calls over the loudspeakers. On the floor next to one desk sat three women with an unmistakable pastoral air about them: long hair in braids, plain cardigans and god only knows how many skirts, making them look like Mumin trolls from the waist down. Seated on their plastic bags filled to the brim, they calmly performed what seemed the trips accounts using a calculator.
Suddenly a 30-something man stormed into the station and deposited something I’d never seen before next to me and Michael. I soon realised that it was the travelling container for hens: fabric bags that looked like document folders with the back facing upward and one peeking/breathing hole at each end. They looked pretty comfortable as such things go, yet one of the hens (or chickens) was very upset and kept stirring inside its bag.
The bus was (of course) delayed because access was blocked by other buses parked closer to the exit gate, but it is the kind of thing I take for granted rather than get annoyed now. I got a ticket for our big backpack which was put away in the storage, and we took up our seats. Soon after, we started our escape from Lima. However, there was one last stop in San Martin de Porres, where a police officer checked our documents and even searched some people (Michael was one of them) briefly for, presumably, weapons. Then the plexi-glass door to the drivers’ seats closed, and we set out northbound on the Panamericana, leaving the bright skyline of Lima behind. Following the steep desert coastline, at times, the road went round a narrow bend and far down below you could see the white foam on the dark waves as they broke over the sand.
The trip, taking place during the dark hours as it did, held little excitement. A film was screened, and then replaced by (too loud) Andean music in the speakers, which gave my dreams a weird note as I drifted in and out of sleep.
Around three hours into the journey, the bus came to a halt in the gravel. On the other side of the road were some low buildings, one of them a kiosk selling chirimoya, oranges, crackers and other necessities. As soon as we realised this was the 5-minute toilet break, we rushed outside. With men relieving themselves as and where they were standing, I joined some ladies behind a low brick wall, our backs to the 3 m tall grass that lined the road now. Then we hurried back into the bus and our blankets.
Sometime later, Michael nudged me and pointed outside. The sky, unlike over Lima, was clear and the full moon shone in all its glory. The landscape being made up of dusty desert hills with only sparse shrubbery and all the more gorges and creaks, the moonlight lent it a ghostlike or alien character. Then we started to climb, and there was more vegetation, but because of the dark it was difficult to make out much. The speed at which we were moving and the lenient use of breaks as well as the distinct complaints from an abused gearbox every so often meant that sleep was definitely the preferred option, unless you were a fan of seeing the bends in the road race up to meet you.
Much later, I woke up and discovered that the purple and pink light of Thursday’s dawn was reflected by snow on the top of the mountains surrounding Huaraz.
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